When I got married

I was 34. More than old enough by the standards even of my time. In 2002, women were not marrying young. It was the sign of the times. It wasn’t just about being a career woman or being independent. It was also because it was hard enough to take care of oneself, much more a family. Women AND men were thinking twice about getting married.

I was the last to get married in my family. Five sisters -- me the middle child. Sister 2 got married first, followed by sister 1 then sister 4 then sister 5. Hmmm…if I got that wrong, one of them will correct me.


By the time I got married, everyone had given up on me. Even me. I was well into paying life insurance when I met my husband. I’d already fully paid for a memorial plan. I was living alone, though renting. My next goal was to save up enough to own housing quarters for myself. I was preparing for a life of single-blessedness.

I was happy enough. I had two jobs. One grounded me with the family. The other enabled me to practice my profession. And though it meant long hours, it was good work – the kind that let me sleep at nights. I was seeing my best friend everyday at work and after office hours; I was playing tennis with a terrific group of friends almost four times a week. I had struck a balance.

I wasn’t even looking when husband came along. When you reach a certain age, you just get less and less options until you run out of them. And by the time you get aware of this, you're already used to having none so it doesn't matter. But there were weekends when I would notice couples holding hands and wonder why I didn’t have what they had. Why I was alone. But most days, it was ok.

So what happened? God stepped in. Had I been left alone to live my life, I would still be eating alone, not really minding because I wouldn't have any idea of what I was missing.

I still believe that we do what we can to live a good life. Most of it, we control. But there are times when God just steps in. It might not make sense at the time, but in time, it will.

Most weekends these days, I still notice couples holding hands. And my husband and I snort at how giddy teenage love can be. But I am glad to say that while we do this, my hands are full -- one in his clasp and the other holding my daughter's. And it is an imperfect but good life.